What’s success—What is a life well spent? When does a dream become so laden by time that it’s easier to set it aside, to just quietly lay it down, to allow it to cease to exist—-to concede that it’s no longer a part of who you are. Is this how we begin to lose our way, to forget who we are—or worse yet, give up on what we were meant to be—
I mostly remember her smile, her laugh, the way she walked next to me, excitedly talking as we made our way across the best part of the morning, moving together, stride for stride, word for word—-heart to heart—-afire with life, fueled by the strongest drug of all—that unexplainable euphoric feeling that comes with knowing you are understood. Love is an elixir that combines understanding with compassion—where there is dharma, there is no separateness.
At night, we’d lay in our bed talking, staring up into the darkness, and when it got real late and the room was totally cloaked in blackness, it was here—yes, here is where the magic would take hold. We weren’t speaking to one another, but instead, we were entering each others thoughts, inhabiting one another’s souls, sharing ideas and feeling telepathically, in a silent confessional—-the conversations were strung together more by the purity of emotion than the imperfection of words. Just like a tightly written poem or a an austere prayer, the words cracked open, and from their insides oozed our soul goo. I know this must sound funny, because it is strange—but oh so beautiful and rare—-all things of beauty are fragile and temporary—but we didn’t know this at the time, so we carried on until another jealous sun rose.
I’ve forgotten the words to that old song we use to sing—I’d find myself half humming and half singing it in a crippled attempt to get through to its end, or maybe it was in the hopes that I might resurrect something left behind within its faded melody—I’ve done my best to stay true to its tune , but the words have grown faint.
I’d call, but numbers change, email accounts close—-but mostly, I keep at a safe distance, because some memories are like impressionistic paintings—-where you can see what you choose, while overlooking all the tiny flaws and betrayed truths.
Sometimes I force myself to meditate on such things, and I will my thoughts out into a porous sky, focusing all my energy into a small shiny ball. If ever you awake in the middle of a dark night and feel a power moving through your veins, crawling under your skin, breathing on your neck, don’t open your eyes—-don’t speak, don’t even move—-just be still, and in that moment feel yourself open up—
a crazed woman cut my heart out of my chest, she then carelessly disassembled it and put it back together all wrong, it was slippery with blood and hard to handle, so she shoved it back inside me where the organ for caring and giving a shit use to be…..these days I compulsively check my pulse in search of a rhythm, but all I feel is an occasional spastic fluttering within my chest, like a bird beating its wings against hurricane winds—and when it gets dark, it stops all together—
come close and put your ear against my chest—-now be still and listen as I tell you how it is for me, at night those blues come stalking me, they peer through my blinds like some nefarious wide-eyed peeping Tom, leaving foggy predatory breath on the window pane——–the bleakness of it all tramples across the nothingness of another specter ridden midnight—I can feel my heart go still, like an unworn love left hanging in someones dusty closet, an addiction traded against a corrupted souls collateral, broken people warehoused like damaged goods, young kids with no fire in their eyes, an old guy going in circles on the metro for an as-semblance of company, the scent of morning rain on dirty pavement, damp leaves smoldering in the drizzle, the stench of alley piss—time is blurring by like a whirl-wind whooshing past my car window on a Sunday drive to nowhere in-particular—-once again I’m tired of me and how I get things all twisted up, I’m left staring into the futility of a gray weather beaten morning, realizing I’m no longer running from something, nor running to something—-I’m slowly being crushed under the ache that comes with knowing that there’s got to be something better than this—-someplace—–somewhere—-cause this life is way to long to be miserable and far to short to be boring—it’s time I set that lil caged bird free—
say something, I’m giving up on you—-
there’s too much pain in the world to believe I’m immune to it, or can hide from it—–or selfishly fear that I’m the only one being consumed by it—that would be a righteous sadness, the kind of sadness that beckons the lugubrious to replay a heartbreak love-song over and over again. Real sadness has no soundtrack, no words, no explanation—-it’s like tree sap that mysteriously shows up on your hands and can’t be washed off—-
people always ask me the same question “Was that story you told true or made-up?” To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure anymore. Most of the stuff I once thought was true, ends up being a lie or an illusion, and what I thought was fiction (made-up) is just an alternative version of truth or reality that I’ve failed to grasp. I’ve come to believe that what’s true, and what’s made up, is a predilection reserved for the teller of tales.
but I do know this, one day that little bird trapped inside my chest will be set free—-
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Lets share a cigarette baby, there is something sexy about having you partake in my bad habits, why? I don’t know, does it matter? Lets drink a couple bottles of wine and we can say things that we make up along the way, just little thoughts about this or that, it doesn’t really matter. We can stumble down some dark small town streets or take our clothes off and stand in the sun on some vacant summer beach, like the one that runs across from the railroad tracks out highway one north between SF and Santa Cruz. But maybe you got better things to do these day, I sure as hell don’t. Do you got any new tunes on your iPod that you can turn me on to? We always like the same artists, the odd ones no one else has ever heard of. Pass me that cigarette again baby—-where’s that cork screw? I don’t want to feel like shit tomorrow, but fuck it, tomorrow is another fabled world away, put your coat on and I’ll tie these unruly shoes of mine and we’ll go outside and walk around, stumble about and I’ll tackle you and bring you down to the earth next to me. And we’ll laugh at this life with its promised death and we’ll pretend today is our last day, maybe it is, who knows, who cares, cause sweetness, right now it don’t matter. Why do people die, they get taken away from us, I don’t like that, I hate that. But you’re alive today with me. Lets go get high and then eat cinnamon graham crackers with sweet Nutella chocolate spread all over them. And then, I’ll make you-up stories as we lay in one another’s arms staring up at the ceiling and we’ll see all these undreamed-of-things tumbling from my mind, hanging right there within the emptiness above us, as if they were real, as if they belonged only to you and me—–cause imagination and fantasy is the spell that once cast, holds love together. Come on darlin, come on along with me and we’ll just keep goin on like this. That wouldn’t be so bad now, would it?
My lap top indicates I’m flying at 536 miles per hour at a hight of 39,239 feet. This is over 6 miles above the earth. Even though I’ve flown many times and the aerodynamics’ of flight has been explained to me in great detail on Wikipedia, I still find it hard to grasp the unrealness of it all. Animal shaped clouds drift by offering me a grin and a wink, several aisles over a baby wails, experienced flyers snooze, everyone is somewhere between “here and there”—ain’t life funny that way.
To forget how to fly at this altitude, to lose ones faith in formulas and physics would send this metal contraption plummeting nose first towards the brown wrinkled rug looking mountains below. I feel a sense of powerlessness as a wave of panic serge’s through my sweaty body. Physics is only numbers, numbers can’t keep a plane from dropping out of the sky like a rock—at this moment, at least for me, it’s magic and faith holding this metal tube in a state of flight. The fusel-lodge shutters as we pass through another set of turbulent winds and thermals. The jet engines drone on in the background as I throw back my third ginger-ale and Jack. I eat my stale pretzels and ask God to have mercy on my undeserving wicked soul—–the fear of impending doom brings out the dormant God in us all.
The air in the cabin is stale and smells and tastes as if it has been inhaled and exhaled by everyone on the plane five times over. I sit squeezed in my chair next to a middle aged guy who has commandeered control of our common armrest forcing me to tuck my elbow uncomfortably into my ribcage. Why am I always seated next to these infidel foreigners who have no appreciation or understanding of the American, Christian, democratic way of life. I’d love to challenge him to recite the pledge of Allegiance or ask him to spout-off a few bible quotes by heart. If he failed (which I know he would) I’d take great pleasure in confiscating his “forged” passport. I’m growing more angry by the moment, his wheezing breath, his mere presence beside me is unbearably annoying. I stare at him out of the corner of my eye to size him up. “Yeah, I think I could kick his scrawny imperialistic ass.” I fight back the urge to slam my left elbow into his right arm and rightfully claim dominion over my armrest. Or—-better yet, I could open a magazine and in the process covertly “accidentally” yet firmly nudge his arm out of my territory. As I consider my available tactics and strategies the stewardess comes by and leans into our hellish tangle of arms, legs, drop-down trays, newspapers and laptops to whisper something in my insurgents—I mean, neighbors ear.
The stewardess gives him a hug and I immediately seize the opportunity to claim the vacated space. What a freaking idiot to be so easily distracted and in the process expose his vulnerability. The stewardess isn’t even all that pretty, the poor fool probably never gets laid and is some kind of androgens eunuch. As for that bitch—I mean stewardess, she’s nothing but a glorified snack-bar attendant. I smugly settle back in my chair and relish my hard-won victory.
The alcohol has filled my bladder causing me extreme discomfort as I fight back the need to relive myself. I’m sure, that as soon as I vacate my seat I will lose the hard-won ground I’d so valiantly conquered. I decide that the situation is not worth pissing my pants over, so I brashly force my way out to the center aisle (without excusing myself) and head for the lavatory at the tail of the plane.
As I exit the restroom I come face to face with the stewardess who solemnly asks, “Would you mind taking this heating pad and pillow to your neighbor?” With a knee jerk reflex I respond in a voice of intolerance, “Can’t he get his own Goddamn pillow and hot pad.” She takes a deep breath and in an even voice responds, “Your neighbor, John—he has a shunt in his right arm. Once every week he flies to the Denver Medical Center to provide bone marrow treatments to his nine-year old son. His right arm gets sore, so the heat and pillow is just a small courtesy to try and help him feel more comfortable. It appears that its too much trouble for you, so just forget it.” I look down at her name tag and respond, “Ah—oh”—well—–uh-um–Cathy, well of course not, it’s no trouble at all. Now give me that pillow please.” My forehead breaks out in beads of sweat, I apologize to her and then turn to make that long trek back to my seat. The jet jumbles about and I stumble sideways. I wish this piece of shit plane would fall out of the sky and crash so I wouldn’t have to face this stranger, this guy named John, the person to whom I’ve invested so much hate. . . A sense of shame pulses from my temples, traveling down my throat and settling at the pit of my twisting stomach.
I’ve been trying to become a better person, but so easily and so often, I forget how to do the right thing. The briefness of being alive, the cruelty of nature, the unexplainable unfairness of life, the uncertainty of losing those closest to us, the inevitability of disease, calamity, misfortune and death, all this should teach us to be kinder to one another—to be accepting and forgiving, but it doesn’t. We pull and push at each other, we slash and tear at one another—-I have so much to learn and such a long way to go, and so little time to get there.
I take my seat and hand over the pillow and heating pad. “The stewardess Cathy, she wanted you to have this.” He shakes his head, “I told her not to make a fuss. She’s ridiculous, but she’s such a great spirit.” I ask about his arm but he skirts the issue and says its nothing. I’m tempted to inquire about his son but I get the feeling that this is sacred territory reserved for those who know and understand such a heartache. We fill our time with such mundane topics as the weather, smart phone apps and our musical tastes. He pulls up pictures of his family on his laptop. There is one of his son decked out in a blue and white little league uniform. He’s on one knee smiling with a bat slung over his shoulder. I’m a writer and pride myself in being observant and compassionate, but apparently I’m neither. It is only now that I detect the worrisome lines on his face and a sadness hiding deep his eyes.
The captain comes over the intercom telling us that the temperature in Denver is seventy-seven degrees and that the wind is blowing from the northwest at 15 mph. With the muted enthusiasm of a fast food attendant, he announces that in approximately eighteen minutes we will be touching down in Denver. To me, these words are proclaiming a miracle, we’re almost there. We’ve flown one-third of the way across the country without stalling and succumbing to the effects of gravity.
I look out my window at a patch quilt of green parks, subdivisions with backyard pools, golden fields and a skyline on a hazy horizon. With my finger against the window I trace along the path of a toy-sized road, its purpose and destination is a mystery to me. Down there, life is forcing itself over roads, across rivers, filling up water-towers, absorbing countryside, suburbs and cities—occupying space, falling through time, desperately moving its way through, over and inside everyone and everything that stands in its way. Down there, thousands of people carry on with their lives, their purpose and destination is a mystery to me—-so many people I’ll never know, so many things I’ll never understand. Where is god in all this? God isn’t, knowing. God isn’t, not knowing. God is in the wonder—ah yes, the enigmatic and elusive wonder of it all.
I want to say something inspirational or encouraging to John, but he doesn’t know that I’m aware of his dire predicament. I have no words for the secret revelations surfacing in me—so I sit dumbfounded lost in the sorrow of this solemn moment.
The wheels thump down on the runway, everyone lurches forward and there is a loud skidding sound of brakes being applied as the engines make a roaring sound. We taxi our way towards the terminal. Suddenly everyone is on their feet pulling down their carry-on luggage. John turns around, “Hey can you do me a favor?” “Sure, anything. What do ya need?” He hands me an envelope, “If I try to give this to Cathy I know she’ll refuse it. She’s a volunteer for the Wounded Warrior Program. They raise funds to help returning Vets. Ya know, for things like housing, counseling and medical needs. Could ya please give her this card and envelope.” He hesitates and then leans into me, “Her husbands a Vet. He was hurt really bad over there and is now confined to a facility where he receives around the clock care.” I nod to John and offer up a stern grimace to convey my empathy. Yeah right—-I’m suddenly Mr. Empathetic.
When you come to understand that God uniquely, personally, unequivocally and eternally loves you, that’s when it becomes easier to be compassionate—-and it also becomes less threatening to forgive all and give yourself to others—conversely it becomes more difficult to be selfish and unkind—who wants to disappoint God—–not me. It’s required a huge leap of faith to get to this place, but these divine convictions are what allow planes to defy gravity and mere mortals to let Gods love flow through them—-and then to be passed on to all others.
It’s not important my point of departure or my final destination, it’s the things I do between “here and there” that define me.
They call it retirement, but the word sounds so—so—how should I put it—-um—ah—-old? The word retired carries with it a tone of being “tired” as in, re-“tired”. By definition the word seems to mean “tired and then tired again” (now that’s freaking tired). It conjures up visions of someone sitting alone on an old tattered Chesterfield with an afghan covering their varicose veined legs as they blankly stare at a rerun of Wheel of Fortune. An ageless Vanna White smiles out at the audience of drooling geezers as she flips over another vowel. The phrase at the bottom of the TV screen reads, “Frogs in biology 101?” The excited contestant hits his button and shouts out, “I’ll solve the puzzle! What is, stiff and waiting to croak.” Now that’s a tad bit harsh, but being new to this élite group known as retiree’s has taken some getting use to.
Recently at a dinner party a balding gentleman with a first trimester pot belly inquired, “So, what do you do?” Awkward silence. I grimace, lick my upper lip and then say it. “Oh, I’m retired”. More awkward silence. He smiles and then looks me up and down as if to see if I am missing any of my appendages. I can see the thoughts ticking away in his worker-bee mind, “This guy is either very lazy or very rich.” Then he try’s to feel me out with some of his own self disclosures. “Oh hell, I’d like to retire too, but I cant’ afford to pull the trigger yet.” This is a guy with a 2012 Navigator and 2011 BMW in his garage, lives in a 3,000 sq. ft. home with just him and his wife, has a pool, hot tub and belongs to the Racket Club. I smile, “I didn’t pull the trigger, I just decided to take the bullets out of the gun, in other words, I choose to down size a bit.” He stares at me with eyes of pity that’s usually reserved for panhandlers and bums. He gives me a fatherly pat on the shoulder and says, “Ah, you’ll be fine. I’ll buy ya a round of golf at the country club someday.” I give him the hang loose hand sign, “Yeah, how bout we play this Monday, there’s hardly any one on the course during the week and the green fee’s are half price.” He answers me without skipping a beat, “Oh no, I couldn’t do that. We’re in the middle of mid year projections and our new revenue production targets have been increased by 15 % for this fiscal year.” The office-speak creates a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. “I’m putting in fifty, sixty hours a week right now to try to keep the workload manageable.” The lines on his forehead clench into a tight little fist. “Jesus, the road work on the inter-state has increased my commute to an hour and a half each way. Not to mention the price of gas. Damn, that V8 of mine is guzzling down the gas like its water.” He nervously rattles the ice in his tumbler of Scotch and then throws it back in one quick gesture of defiance.
More awkward silence—-. I extend my hand to give him a parting farewell. We struggle for a second trying to figure out if we should give each other the “bro shake” or the formal “businessman grip”. We end up with a kind of uncomfortable middle of the road handshake that is indicative of our disjointed conversation. “Well, stop by the house and maybe we can take the kids for a hike or go to the beach or something.” He nods and gives me a noncommittal, “Yeah, sure, sounds good.” I give it one more try, “No I really mean it. We can get up at the crack of dawn and hike up Mt. Tallac.” He only provides me his partial attention as he hastily appeases the annoying ringtone from his iPhone. Ironically the little device is playing the song, “Help” by the Beatles.
As I turn to walk away he grabs me by the arm and motions for me to wait. He quickly taps out a text message and once again addresses me. “Maybe we can hike Mt. Tellac. I’ll email you and then put it on my outlook calendar and its a done deal. By the way, what is the elevation at the summit?” It is my turn to look him up and down as I respond with a bit of trepidation in my voice, “It’s above 10,000 feet.” He sucks in his gut as he pulls up his Dockers, “We can do this bro!” I smile, “I think you’re right man. Sometimes ya got to get above all the crap to enjoy the view.”
As I drove home from the party in my 2002 Outback (4 cylinder), I am reminded of a quote by Annie Dillard, “How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.”
Disclaimer: This blog is by no means insinuating that working into ones golden years is a bad thing. In fact, many people love to continue working well into their later years, as their profession is their passion—and this is a beautiful thing. This piece is intended to examine how two individuals with different perspectives seek to find common ground and a mutual understanding of the other’s lifestyle. With that said, I accept the fact that subjective observations are biased, but that comes with the territory of being a writer.
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